


I Would Give It All

by tinycat



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe: modern; dystopian; slavery;, Anthropomorphism - Freeform, Frostbite, Hospitalisation: septicaemia; amputation (frostbite);, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Non-human Species, Pseudo-bestiality (not explicit), READ THE NOTES., Return of Abuser, Verbal Abuse, soulbonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinycat/pseuds/tinycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Using the characters from Hugo's Les Misérables, this story creates a dystopian alternate world in which humans and another sentient, forcibly subservient species known as Hybrids ('semi-humanoid' beings with dog-like senses and physical additions) co-exist. </p><p>Combeferre is a moderately wealthy veterinarian living in Paris, France. Despite his humanity, he has a respect for Hybrids that most others don't. He's a man of science, but he doesn't dismiss the possibility that something called a 'soul' -- an otherwise laughable figment of the Hybrid imagination -- might exist, or that souls have physical power in the universe not unlike gravity. </p><p>Courfeyrac is a Hybrid -- a being that resembles a human, with the exception of uniquely dog-like senses, floppy ears, a tail, and sharp canine teeth. His only crime (according to the strict legal code that governs every aspect of life as a Hybrid) is that he isn't human. </p><p>All he wants is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Would Give It All

**Author's Note:**

> I flip-flopped on actually posting this story for a very long time. I'm having doubts about it even as I write this, because the reality is -- this is a complicated and very problematic concept. Triggers aside (of which there are many, though I hope that I treated them with as much respect as I am capable of writing), the actual plot and implied subservience of the Hybrids, which are a slave species, must be acknowledged and discussed. 
> 
> First, this story is not a metaphor for race or racism -- slavery and discrimination are reprehensible and morally wrong, and I'm not condoning them by depicting them. The simple fact is that nothing exists in a vacuum. Without context, the connection between enslaved people and animals is incredibly derogatory, and it's because of those concepts that it's critical for me, as the author, to acknowledge and comment on them. 
> 
> I'm making no veiled suggestions. My choice to write dog-people stems from my interest in the science fiction concept of anthropomorphism. The narrative suggestion that Hybrids are legitimately subservient in nature is a reflection on literal dogs. I acknowledge that the attitude of domesticated dogs in reality has been carefully bred over time by humans, but I am not making any kind of statement or social commentary with that fact. 
> 
> The parallel that I set out to explore when I first started thinking about this story is the difficulty that women face with regards to BDSM, and specifically Dominant/submissive relationships. (Again, I'm absolutely not implying or saying that women are naturally subservient -- I'm openly stating that dogs are mind-blowingly loving.) BDSM is a lifestyle centred around choice and consent, but its very existence is skewed by misogyny and the social stigma that women are and should be submissive. For a woman to choose to be submissive is not a statement on the nature of all women -- it's an individual, personal choice. Courfeyrac actively wanting to be a 'pet' (in the context of this story, to live in subservience to a human under their subsequent legal authority) and Combeferre preliminarily taking issue with it deliberately mirrors the doubt and concern that I, personally, have experienced in desiring D/s relationships because of social influences.
> 
> Choice is at the heart of this story -- choosing to be at odds with society, or choosing to participate in a life that can be misinterpreted as sympathetic to the existing, incredibly flawed social system. There are still many comments and criticisms that can rightfully be made on the latter despite these disclaimers, but the only statement of purpose that I have endeavoured to make with this fanfiction is the importance of individual choice.

He'd meant to make himself tea. He'd put the kettle on more than ten minutes ago. Its shrill, angry whistle sounded from the kitchen not long after.

He hadn't heard it. 

He didn't notice how he kept dragging his fingers over the soft fleece at his side. 

He was staring silently out of his misty windows into the cold, wet dark. There was something out there -- something more than terrible weather.

Something he needed to see. 

"And if you're thinking of going out for dinner--," a news anchor cautioned. "Don't. It's only going to get worse, right Marc?" 

Marc the weatherman adamantly agreed. Rain would turn to sleet, if it hadn't already. (It pelted against the glass in front of Combeferre's face.) Sleet would turn to ice. (The fog on his side of the windows was so thick it dripped down the panes and splintered, frosting over before it hit the bottom.) Absolutely everything would freeze, the weatherman warned. 

"So, whatever you do -- don't go out."

Combeferre grabbed his coat. 

He turned his collar up against the wind as he walked away from his wide, empty street and the elegant (beautifully warm) building where he lived. The rain still got in, soaking his shirt to the hem and seeping down between his shoulder blades -- but he stuffed his hands into his pockets, kept his head down and his eyes up, and wandered. 

He wandered from street to street, glancing down alleyways. 

He had no idea what he was looking for, but he relentlessly looked anyway.

Combeferre was arguably a man of science. He was a veterinarian -- and a good one -- who put things that could be tested and measured just a step ahead of things that couldn't. But that didn't make him an Unbeliever. Science could do and say what it liked. It could take apart the world with a ruler for all he cared. No amount of force or derision would make him doubt the possibility that completely unmeasurable things were just as real. 

He was in the rain because he believed very strongly in the power of Instinct and what it could drive a man -- or a dog, or a Hybrid -- to do. 

Everyone was connected. Everyone was connected to everything. 

He worshipped at the altar of science -- but he believed in that too. 

His feet had gone numb by the time he found was he was looking for. But he found it.

A scrawny, wet, ragged-looking boy had tucked himself into a dirty little alcove in an even dirtier little alley. A rusted oil drum stood upright not far from him, surrounded by caved in cardboard boxes. Even the homeless had found somewhere safer to be that night. 

But not him. 

He'd pulled both of his arms right into his shirt and tugged the neckline up over his nose just to keep a little warmth in his chest. It wasn't doing him any good -- even with his chin tucked against his knees, a torrent of rain water spilled down on his feet, soaking into his shoes -- but it was the best he could do. 

Combeferre could hardly see him in the shadow, but he already knew how blue the boy's lips would be. He could feel the ice in the boy's skin without touching him. He had difficulty breathing, and he knew it wasn’t from the cold.

He peeled his coat off without sparing a thought for himself. 

He draped it over the boy, gently digging his hands under the boy's knees to scoop him up and cradle him snugly against his chest. 

Long, brown Basset ears hung right down to the boy's shoulders, but the fact that he was a Hybrid didn't faze Combeferre in the slightest either. For whatever reason, that thought had already occurred to him too. 

The collar at his throat was a bit of a surprise.

He held the boy close and hurried home. 

He'd left his apartment in such a rush that he hadn't stopped to lock the door, which was lucky for him, because he fumbled enough trying to grab the handle -- he'd never have managed to get at his keys. The boy didn't notice. 

He was barely breathing. 

Combeferre shoved his way into his apartment, and carried the boy straight to his bed. 

He hadn't ever regretted his medical training -- the knowledge, or the ability to stay calm in a crisis. But he'd never been quite so grateful for them until that moment. 

He stripped off the wet shirt, jeans, and boxers, dried the boy off as gently as he could, patting down his ice-cold ears and tail, and piled blankets on top of him. Blankets were joined by two electric heating pads and the only hot water bottle Combeferre had, nestled between the boy's feet. Combeferre spared three seconds for the collar -- just enough time to find the lock where a buckle should have been, and a nameplate that said "Courfeyrac" -- before he ignored it completely. 

Courfeyrac seemed to be shivering.

It was the only sigh of relief that Combeferre allowed himself to have. 

A thermometer told him that Courfeyrac wasn't in critical condition. His core temperature was still dangerously low, but it wasn't where Combeferre expected it to be. Maybe he hadn't been in the rain that long.

Maybe he was just impossibly resilient. 

Combeferre put those, and every other question to the side. He had work to do. He could think later. 

His final effort -- and the only option left to him once he'd set the thermostat to its highest possible setting -- was to strip down to his boxers as well, and climb in.

He wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac. He wrapped his legs around him. He held the boy tight against his chest, and he didn't let go. 

Hours and hours later, the sun came up -- and Courfeyrac slowly opened his eyes.

It wasn't the first time he'd woken up in a stranger's bed -- but it was actually the first time he'd done it with no knowledge of how he'd gotten there. The man next to him was fast asleep, but tucked against him as tightly as possible. 

Courfeyrac couldn't resist a smirk. Waking up so comfortably was a little rare for him too. 

But the smirk faded as he started to feel a faint pain in his ears. 

And then a not so faint pain. 

And then a burning, horrifying, miserable, completely unbearable pain. He whimpered loudly and reached up to touch them -- which naturally only made it worse. 

Combeferre was already awake when Courfeyrac let out a long, agonised howl. 

It wasn't easy, but Combeferre did eventually manage to calm him down and give him something for the pain. He also -- skilfully -- introduced himself, and explained why Courfeyrac was naked, and in his bed.

Not that Courfeyrac really cared. His ears and tail were on fire, and that was a big deal. 

Combeferre found himself running his fingers through the dark brown curls at the back of Courfeyrac's neck as they waited for hastily-prescribed narcotic-strength painkillers to take effect. Between that and his soothing reassurances that Courfeyrac was going to be okay, the Hybrid boy was finally able to take a deep breath, and pause. 

"I'll get you some pants?" Combeferre offered. 

Courfeyrac snorted dismissively. "Yeah, you keep spare pants for pets around? Or is yours just away on leave today?"

Combeferre winced and apologised. Courfeyrac was a Hybrid -- half-human, half-dog, and colloquially known as a 'pet' owing to their societal subservience to humans. He had a tail. Ipso facto, none of Combeferre's pants-without-tail-holes would really work for him, and it was considered incredibly tacky to suggest that they just cut a hole in an otherwise unsuitable pair. 

Hybrids might not have had equal rights in the eyes of the law -- but they weren't lacking in dignity. 

"I'll wash yours," Combeferre amended, dropping his hand to slide out of bed. 

Courfeyrac caught him by the wrist for all of two seconds, but quickly let him go. His mouth hung open, and -- to Combeferre's surprise -- he stammered. "I'm sorry. I--" His eyes, a beautiful, bright green, focused on the bed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."

As small as he was, he seemed to shrink even more. 

Combeferre slowly sat back down. 

He didn't need to ask -- and he didn't need a weirdly Courfeyrac-focused sixth sense to tell him what had just happened. "It's okay," he immediately told Courfeyrac. "You're okay."

Courfeyrac licked his lips nervously. He was consciously leaning back -- away from Combeferre. 

Combeferre reached out, covering Courfeyrac's hand with both of his own. Courfeyrac stared. 

"You're not my pet," he explained gently. He was hesitant to say that Courfeyrac wasn't anyone's pet, even if that was the feeling at the front of his mind. "There are no rules -- no expectations. You're a guest, and you can do whatever you want."

Courfeyrac didn't answer. If anything, it seemed like someone had pointed a remote at him and hit pause.

"I mean that sincerely," Combeferre murmured. "Anything you need is yours."

Courfeyrac still didn't look him in the eye, but he thanked Combeferre quietly. Combeferre reassuringly squeezed his hand. 

It took every ounce of Combeferre's iron will not to ask right then and there why Courfeyrac had been out in the rain the night before -- even if part of him didn't want to know.

"Thank you," Courfeyrac repeated earnestly. "I-- I should--"

Combeferre lifted one hand -- he only meant to brush his fingers through Courfeyrac's hair again, to put him at ease -- but Courfeyrac immediately jerked backwards, turning his face away and closing his eyes tightly. 

Combeferre lowered his hand. Outwardly, he stayed calm -- for Courfeyrac's sake. Inwardly, he was livid -- and he was not the kind of person who felt anger often. But that one reaction had told him everything that he needed to know.

"You're staying here," he told Courfeyrac firmly. "Vet's orders."

***

"Poirier stated again this morning that he will summarily dismiss any rights cases that end up in the court of Appeals--"

Combeferre rolled his eyes at his television, and muttered, "Until you pay Parliament to do it for you." 

The news anchors didn't hear his snarky commentary. They were preoccupied with a joke one of them had made about 'fox hunting' -- a government initiative to locate and tag all non-domestic Hybrids. Combeferre frowned in disgust. 

His bedroom door opened, and Combeferre quickly muted the television. Courfeyrac wobbled into view with a nervous expression. Combeferre had washed and dried his clothes so he'd pulled his own boxers back on, but nothing else. He didn't seem to care about the dark purple bruise on his side -- probably because Combeferre had already seen it. 

"Hey," Combeferre greeted. "Sorry, did I wake you?" Every trace of irritation was gone from his tone, replaced by genuine concern. 

Courfeyrac shook his head. He didn't look sleepy, but his hair stuck up at adorably ridiculous angles. When paired with the bandages on his long, floppy ears, he looked absolutely pitiful.

Combeferre smiled. "How do you feel?"

Courfeyrac seemed reluctant to come any closer. He shifted awkward from one foot to the other. "My tail hurts," he whined softly.

Combeferre sat forward. "Come here and let me take a look at it."

Courfeyrac was in front of him in a single leap. He turned and sank to his knees, and lifted his trembling tail as high as he could, even though sharp pain was creeping through the blissful clouds of the painkillers Combeferre had given him earlier. 

To distract his patient, Combeferre gently scratched Courfeyrac's head.

Courfeyrac's ears were going to be fine. They'd blister a little, and itch for a week or two, but they'd heal without any lasting damage. 

His tail would not be so lucky. More than half of it was red and swollen and losing fur in clumps -- clear signs of very serious frostbite. And there was nothing, Combeferre regretfully knew, that he could do. In a few painful days they'd know how much of it -- if not all of it -- Courfeyrac was going to lose.

He couldn't help blaming himself for not being careful enough. 

He had to tell Courfeyrac. 

But Courfeyrac beat him to it. "...you're going to have to cut it off, aren't you?" He asked. 

Combeferre blinked. 

"You're upset about it," Courfeyrac added, looking over his shoulder. "I can smell it." His expression was impossibly sweet -- there wasn't a hint of accusation anywhere in him. 

"I think so," Combeferre answered honestly. "If I could fix it--"

Courfeyrac responded by twisting and nuzzling against his wrist. He was every inch the domesticated Hybrid -- gentle and affectionate.

"I'm sorry," Combeferre said anyway, even though Courfeyrac was practically bleeding forgiveness. 

Courfeyrac carefully shook his head. "Thank you." He licked Combeferre's arm, giving Combeferre a glimpse of his long, sharp canine teeth. Two different expressions of gratitude -- one for each of the two worlds that Hybrids occupied. 

Combeferre smoothly cupped Courfeyrac's cheek.

Following his instincts, Courfeyrac leaned in and licked Combeferre's face. 

He didn't pull back. 

Combeferre breathed out slowly. 

Courfeyrac moved closer and kissed him on the mouth. 

Combeferre closed his eyes and buried his hand in Courfeyrac's hair, kissing him back. 

Hybrids were born believing. Humans were the unlucky ones -- they were the Unbelievers, raised in stark, clinical scepticism. To the majority of humans, the thought that two people might somehow be inherently connected was a joke -- an obviously ludicrous Hybrid superstition. Utterly non-quantifiable, cosmic bonds? Hysterical. 

Courfeyrac melted against Combeferre's mouth.

Combeferre very gently pushed him away.

He didn't let go. He held Courfeyrac -- who had bowed his head to hide the shameful flush in his cheeks -- in place and took a shallow breath. 

Despite his human deficiencies, Combeferre had never really been the type to doubt anything. In fact, with a single kiss, he was firmly sold on the reality of those so-called superstitions. But Fate was not the only power in the universe. 

He pulled his hand back just enough to brush his fingers over the collar at Courfeyrac's throat. Courfeyrac didn't lift his head. 

"Let me take this off?" Combeferre murmured. 

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and answered quietly, "No."

***

"Donnnn' goooo," Courfeyrac whined, even though it was muffled. He had the sleeve of Combeferre's coat between his teeth and was trying to drag him back into the apartment. 

Combeferre was only half-inside his coat and laughing about it, leaning away from him, and out the door. "I have to," he replied. "Come on, we talked about this."

A long, miserable howl echoed in the back of Courfeyrac's throat. 

Combeferre smiled at him adoringly. He was smitten. He was completely, utterly smitten and he knew it. And honestly, he was sorely tempted to take another day off work -- his fourth in a row -- just to stay at home with that beautiful, sweet puppy face. But he couldn't. It wasn't fair to his patients. 

"I'll be back at lunchtime," he promised. 

Courfeyrac let his coat go and dropped to the floor, pouting. 

Combeferre bit his lip. 

He couldn't stay -- he resolutely pulled his coat on. "I will be back," he repeated, more for his sake than Courfeyrac's. He was halfway out of the apartment, and still convincing himself to leave. "And you'll be alright until then."

Courfeyrac threw his head back and howled soulfully. Combeferre snorted and closed the door. 

He walked to work with nothing but Courfeyrac on his mind. 

"So please," Combeferre's receptionist begged -- she'd shoved his coat and a client's file into his hand the minute he walked into the office, "please keep your eye on the clock." Combeferre smiled sheepishly. "All three exam rooms are already full, and you don't have time for lunch--"

He suddenly stopped dead.

She didn't stop pushing him. 

He turned around. "Eponine--"

"You don't have time--"

"--I need my lunch break."

"You can eat carrots while you look at patients."

"No--"

Eponine stopped pushing him and pressed her hands to her temples. She'd known before she'd taken the job that working for Combeferre wasn't going to be easy. He was the type of person who made time for absolutely everyone -- even when there wasn't actually enough time in the day. Usually she managed. She was fairly crafty, she could manipulate his schedule to work around his generosity. 

But she wasn't a miracle worker. 

She made a frustrated noise.

"I'm sorry," he told her sincerely. "I have to go home for at least an hour at lunch."

"No."

"Eponine." He was pleading. 

Eponine glared at him. She hadn't asked what his smile was about when he'd walked through the door. Frankly, she could guess -- and she also didn't care. Her priority was saving her boss's business from going under because he decided to take half the week off for the first time in five years. 

"Half an hour," she compromised. 

"Forty-five," Combeferre countered. 

"Forty."

Combeferre held out his hand. Eponine shook it.

And then shoved him into Exam Room One. 

She didn't give him so much as a minute to breathe after that. He bounced from one room to the next, sometimes answering calls as he walked. There was always a clipboard and a form in need of a signature waiting for him when he was done with anything, and he did his best to keep up. She rewarded him with unhealthily caffeinated tea -- but she didn't let him slow down. 

It wasn't until his last appointment before his tightly scheduled lunch break that he actually got a chance to even sit.

His two patients struggled to hide their amusement. Their human patron didn't. 

Combeferre put his head in his hands for a brief moment as Musichetta laughed at him. 

"Maybe if you hadn't rescheduled on us three times," she said, mocking him in the sweetest, most endearing tone. Joly and Bossuet both grinned. 

"I didn't know I was going to be out as long as I was," Combeferre explained. 

"Were you sick?" Bossuet asked. 

"Everyone seems to be coming down with the flu-- ever since that rainstorm."

"No," Combeferre replied quickly, reaching for a box of latex exam gloves. "I wasn't, but I assume you are?" He glanced at Joly.

Bossuet beamed adoringly at the incredibly pale man sitting next to him. Joly had cotton balls taped in his floppy, silver ears.

Half an hour later, Combeferre ticked off a couple of boxes on Bossuet's chart. "Alright-- you should be fine for another six months at least."

He, Bossuet, and Musichetta all glanced at Joly, who was sitting on the floor at Musichetta's feet. He had his head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his hair. 

"We'll see you in a few weeks," she murmured as she kept petting him. Joly made a soft, but happy and grateful noise. 

"If only for the company," Bossuet added as he hopped down from the exam chair. His pointed, dark, and almost furless ears swivelled and twitched even as he buckled a little collar loosely around his neck. 

Combeferre looked from him, to Joly, and back again. A thought occurred to him. 

"Joly, you wouldn't happen to have any clothes you could spare, do you?" 

Joly blinked and looked up. "Probably, why?"

Musichetta smirked. "Is that why you've been on vacation?" 

Joly's and Bossuet's heads simultaneously tilted to the side -- they even had identically curious expressions. 

"I have a friend visiting," Combeferre said innocently. "He's about Joly's size--"

"I thought you were against keeping pets," Musichetta teased. It was a private joke -- she hated the institution as much as Combeferre did. Despite the collars, Joly and Bossuet weren't her pets, and she wasn't their patron. Technically, even though the majority of the world didn't allow or recognise it, they were her husbands., and she was their wife. Combeferre was one of a very select group of people to even know that. 

Bossuet put his hand on her shoulder. 

"I think I have some in the car," Joly answered. 

Musichetta kissed the top of his head and gently pushed him away. "I'll go get them. No one needs three spare jumpers for car rides."

"Well," Joly immediately countered -- but Bossuet cut him off with a barking laugh. 

After Musichetta had gone, Bossuet turned to Combeferre. "Did you really adopt?" Joly shifted so he was leaning against Bossuet's legs in Musichetta's absence. Bossuet picked up where Musichetta had left off and scratched him lovingly between his ears.

"No," Combeferre insisted, putting both of their files on the counter-top. 

No, he didn't. 

But he sort of did. 

And considering there was no other alternative... 

When he looked up, he realised both Bossuet and Joly were waiting for an explanation. 

Combeferre took a deep breath. 

In a very soft whisper, he said: "He's a runaway."

Joly's and Bossuet's jaws both dropped. 

Even if Courfeyrac hadn't deliberately run away, there was no such thing as abandonment in their world. It happened constantly, but that wasn't justification enough for humans to acknowledge it. Walking away from the 'mutually beneficial' relationship that humans and Hybrids shared was only something that an irresponsible, ungrateful Hybrid would do. 

Joly and Bossuet weren't shocked by the fact that it had happened, and they certainly didn’t hold Combeferre’s friend responsible. 

They were worried for Combeferre -- he would lose his job and his medical license if anyone alerted the authorities to the fact that he was hiding a runaway in his home. They were both Hybrids -- they cared about their own kind. But they couldn't help that they didn't want anything to happen to him.

"Combeferre--"

"I know," he murmured. He almost laughed. "Believe me, I know."

He didn't care.

Bossuet reached out and took his hand -- it was a sign of incredible trust. 

"So, when can we meet him?" Joly jovially asked. 

***

There didn't seem to be anyone at home when Combeferre opened the door to his apartment. He'd jogged back -- jogged, in shoes and pants that really weren't meant for running, with a bag of clothes thrown over his shoulder. He only lived an eight minute walk away from his office -- but eight minutes both ways was a lot when you only had a very strict forty minutes to spend. 

He set the bag down next to the door and glanced towards the kitchen. The television in the living room was on. There were blankets and pillows piled up on the sofa where Courfeyrac had been sleeping -- Combeferre had insisted, despite Courfeyrac's desperate protests to be allowed to sleep at the foot of his bed at least. But still no actual Courfeyrac. 

Combeferre wandered into the middle of the room. "Courfeyrac?"

No answer. 

Combeferre turned around. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his bedroom -- and more specifically, a blanketed lump in the middle of his bed.

He walked forward. 

Courfeyrac had his nose buried in the only pillow Combeferre had kept for himself. His long, adorable ears were stretched out on either side of his head. He had one blanket draped over his legs and another over his back, leaving his bandaged tail exposed to keep it from snagging on anything as he slept. 

Combeferre stopped in the doorway and watched silently. 

Every so often Courfeyrac's feet would twitch, and he'd make an excited, sleepy yip. 

Combeferre glanced at his watch. It took him less than five seconds to make a decision. 

He quietly slipped into bed, careful not to disturb either the blankets, or the sleeping boy's tail, and stretched out next to him. He closed his eyes, and gently laid his hand on Courfeyrac's back. 

Pressed against the pillow, the corners of Courfeyrac's mouth curved into a smile. 

Eponine woke them both up a half an hour later by calling Combeferre's cell phone and home phone simultaneously. 

"I thought about having the building manager knock on your door, but I figured that might be a little awkward to explain if you were pre-occupied," she told Combeferre as he groggily answered her third consecutive call to his cell. He'd ignored the first two -- though why he thought that would discourage her was a mystery. 

"I'm not doing anything," Combeferre replied, rubbing his eyes. Courfeyrac had rolled over and snuggled under Combeferre's chin. "And how is calling any less awkward in that context?"

"Because I don't care if you're balls deep--"

"Thank you, Eponine," Combeferre said immediately, cutting her off. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Five," she corrected sharply. 

"Five," Combeferre conceded with a sigh. 

Courfeyrac kissed him on his dimpled chin, but let him go. 

"I brought you some clothes," Combeferre added as he straightened his shirt. "They're in a bag by the front door." Courfeyrac beamed at him gratefully as Combeferre's phone buzzed. 

[text] Eponine: have you left yet  
[text] Eponine: leave now  
[text] Eponine: put your dick away and walk out the door

Combeferre saved his replies for when he got back to the office. 

Eponine had yet another file waiting for him when he came in. "Your next appointment is--"

"--going to wait for five minutes," Combeferre told her, putting his hand on her shoulder. SHe started to protest, but he pushed her out of the reception area -- and kept pushing until they were in the privacy of a supply room at the very back of the building. 

Combeferre faced her. "Stop--"

"I'm sorry--"

"--it's not like that--"

"I'm just--," Eponine blinked. "Wait, what?"

"It's not like that," Combeferre repeated. "I'm not having sex with him."

Eponine tucked the file under her arm. "But there is someone."

Combeferre ran his hand over his dark, thick hair. "Yes."

Christmas morning dawned on Eponine's face. Combeferre groaned. 

She couldn't help it -- she was happy for him. She knew for a fact that he put work and work and more work ahead of himself every day. She'd briefly assumed he'd been hit by a bus or something the first day that he called in sick -- literally the only reason she could fathom why he wouldn't show up was that he'd been divested of his physical body and hadn't mastered the art of non-corporeal movement yet. But here he was, whole and healthy and -- for once in his life -- thinking of himself. 

"It is not like that," Combeferre repeated for a third time. He could read what she was thinking in the smirk on her mouth and the glee in her eyes. 

"Who's the lucky man?"

"Eponine, he's a hybrid."

She stopped smiling. 

"And before you ask," Combeferre added. "No, I haven't adopted."

One of the veterinary assistants knocked on the supply closet door. "Dr. Combeferre--"

"Ten minutes," Combeferre and Eponine said simultaneously. 

Eponine sat down on a bucket. "Okay. Explain."

"I found him."

Eponine stared at him.

Combeferre took a deep breath, and told her as much as he could. He told her about the rainstorm, about finding Courfeyrac, about the hypothermia and the frostbite. He mentioned the collar and the bruises, and everything he suspected about the person Courfeyrac had lived with before. 

He didn't tell her about the feeling that had dragged him out into the cold in the first place, or the way he felt dizzy every time Courfeyrac so much as breathed. He knew for a fact she didn't believe in souls, or the theoretical connection two (or even three) might share. But not knowing that, and not considering it only made things more confusing for her. 

Her eyes narrowed. She pulled the file she was holding to her chest.

She'd somehow thought that Combeferre had gotten caught up in a relationship with another human. It would have been good for him, since he didn't seem to have any hobbies, to have something and someone unrelated to work to rely on. But what she was hearing was that he'd found a stray -- a fugitive, in the context of the law -- and was harbouring it in his house. 

Contrary to the law and to what their world dictated, she believed that humans and Hybrids were equals. She always had -- she'd never doubted it. 

But she didn't believe in self-sacrifice. 

Nothing Combeferre was telling her made sense. 

"...what are you going to do with him?" She asked. 

Combeferre didn't answer. 

He didn't know. 

He stared back at her. 

His problem was rooted in the law. Legally, Hybrids had no rights. They weren't allowed to exist independently like humans -- and according to the Science taught to every primary schooler, human and Hybrid alike, they actually weren't physically able to. Courfeyrac had an owner because he had to have one. Hybrids that didn't were either rogues or runaways. 

Being either was a criminal offence. 

To keep him safe -- even just to let Courfeyrac live in his house, Combeferre had to adopt him. To own him, regardless of his morals, in the eyes of the law. 

But he couldn't. He just couldn't do that. 

Every day that went by that he let Courfeyrac stay was a day he put them both at risk, and that was what Eponine couldn't even begin to grasp. She'd heard that same story half a dozen times in her life -- everyone had. Hybrid Sympathisers who tried to hide or smuggle hybrids out of the country. Hybrids who tried to make it on their own, living in communes out in the country. 

None of them ever had a happy ending. 

She was an Unbeliever. She knew Combeferre's story would be no different. 

She held out the file in her arms. "Your clients are waiting," she told him. 

Combeferre took it from her, but apart from that, he didn't move. "Give me two minutes," he asked quietly.

Eponine nodded, and left. 

***

"What are you doing?" Combeferre asked, looking over his book.

Courfeyrac had his chin on Combeferre's knee, and a dish towel between his teeth. He growled softly. 

Combeferre put his book down. 

Courfeyrac wagged his tail -- he winced as he did it, because it was still sore and bandaged -- but he wagged it all the same. 

"You want to play tug of war?"

Courfeyrac made a crooning noise. 

Combeferre reached out, running his fingers through Courfeyrac's hair and down over one of his ears. They'd healed just fine -- as far as they could tell, there wasn't even any temperature sensitivity. 

Courfeyrac's right foot thumped against the floor enthusiastically. 

He nosed his way in between Combeferre's legs and looked up with a sad, begging expression. 

Combeferre didn't swear often -- but internally, he was shouting about those fucking beautiful green eyes. 

"You puppy dog," he murmured. 

Courfeyrac let go of the dish towel and straightened up. He was grinning from ear to ear and looked unbearably proud of himself. 

Combeferre sighed and picked up one end of the cloth. 

"Don't bite me," he cautioned, holding it out for Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac gave him an unimpressed look, as if to say, "Please. Like I would." Combeferre snorted. 

Courfeyrac deftly took his end of the towel between his sharp teeth and pulled gently. 

Combeferre tugged back. 

Courfeyrac pulled harder. 

Combeferre didn't budge. 

A playful, but determined growl started building in Courfeyrac's throat. He got up on his knees. 

Combeferre moved his book to the table next to him and gripped the dish towel with both hands. "Is that the best you can do?" He teased. 

Courfeyrac accidentally let go as he barked indignantly. Combeferre couldn't help but laugh at the immediately horrified expression that followed as Courfeyrac realised the dish towel was no longer in his mouth. 

"Try again," he said soothingly, holding the towel out. 

Courfeyrac bit down on it with a grumpy huff -- but in seconds he was tugging back, and this time he was giving it everything he had. He dug his fingers into the carpet and leaned back, yanking on the cloth. He jerked his head left, then right, and Combeferre struggled to keep his grip. 

But he was smiling, and Courfeyrac noticed. 

Courfeyrac growled again -- a happy, unhindered sound as he gradually scooted back, pulling Combeferre to the end of his chair. 

Combeferre dug his heels into the floor. Courfeyrac compensated by dragging and dragging until Combeferre had his arms stretched out in front of him. 

Courfeyrac gave the dish towel a sharp yank -- Combeferre's hold slipped, and he let go. 

"No!" 

Courfeyrac bounced and pranced victoriously as Combeferre sighed exaggeratedly. 

"Alright," the vet conceded. "You win." 

Courfeyrac's entire body wagged with delight. 

Combeferre straightened up -- and rolled up his sleeves. 

Courfeyrac stopped prancing. 

"What?" Combeferre asked, smiling. "All tug of war games are best out of three."

Courfeyrac spun in a circle on his knees, yapping like he'd just been given an entire box of treats. 

Combeferre reached out, grabbing his end of the towel again. He shifted in his chair, bracing himself, and then looked Courfeyrac in the eye. "Alright. Go."

It took five seconds for Courfeyrac -- who was lighter, and significantly shorter than him -- to have him on his knees on the floor. 

Combeferre -- to his esteemed credit -- valiantly held on. 

Courfeyrac growled and jerked backwards. He stayed on all fours as Combeferre struggled to cling to the dish towel with his hands. Every time Combeferre gained an inch, pulling Courfeyrac closer to his chest, Courfeyrac hauled Combeferre forward until he was one hard tug away from falling onto his face. 

For a moment it seemed like Courfeyrac was deliberately avoiding knocking Combeferre over. 

But only for a moment. 

He twisted, and Combeferre hit the floor. 

Courfeyrac immediately dropped the dish towel and pounced on him, sloppily licking Combeferre's face and panting joyfully. Combeferre laughed and wiped his mouth on his wrist -- not because of Courfeyrac, but because of the carpet fibres he'd unintentionally inhaled as he face planted. 

Courfeyrac flopped down on him as Combeferre rolled on to his back, nuzzling him enthusiastically. He'd won! As far as he was concerned, Combeferre was his prize. 

He cheerfully rubbed his nose against Combeferre's as he grinned. 

"Alright, alright!" Combeferre protested, laughing as Courfeyrac's affection showed no signs of stopping. "You won, fair and square." 

Courfeyrac kissed him. Not a puppy kiss with a lick to the cheek -- a warm, firm, mouth-to-mouth kiss that he leaned into. 

Combeferre's hand lifted, cupping Courfeyrac's neck. 

His instincts had drawn him to Courfeyrac in the first place. And his instincts were telling him -- yelling loudly at him -- to kiss right back. To kiss harder -- to roll over, and pin Courfeyrac down, and let him melt right into the hidden floorboards. 

He opened his mouth slightly, and Courfeyrac crooned.

He dragged his free hand up the bare skin of Courfeyrac's back, tracing his spine and combing through the hair at the back of his neck. 

He kissed gently. 

He could feel Courfeyrac's tail wagging. 

He knew he had to stop. It made his chest hurt to even consider it -- but he had to. 

"Courfeyrac," he mumbled, cupping the boy's face with both hands to push him back just enough to breathe. Courfeyrac whined. 

Combeferre wanted to hug him. He wanted to scoop him up, injured tail and all and hold him tight and not think about the reality of their situation. Intimate relations between humans and hybrids were the norm -- but love wasn't. 

And equality even less so. 

"Courfeyrac," he murmured again, more sympathetically than before. 

"Don't stop," Courfeyrac whimpered. 

Combeferre kissed his forehead.

Courfeyrac curled up into a tight little ball on the floor when Combeferre pushed him away. He had his ears over his eyes, and his nose in the crook of his arm. Combeferre sat up, but kept his sigh to himself -- he was wary about expressing just how reluctant he was to stop. How much he didn't want to. 

He didn't want his feelings to influence the conversation that he knew they needed to have.

He got to his feet and grabbed a fleece blanket from the back of his chair. Courfeyrac didn't budge as Combeferre draped it over him. 

Combeferre stepped about a foot away, before sitting back down on the floor. "Courfeyrac, we need to talk about what you want to do."

Courfeyrac's head disappeared under the blanket. 

"You're going to be at risk if you stay here," Combeferre said gently. "Even if you stay in the city, and-- ...you can't sleep out there. It's only going to get colder."

Courfeyrac didn't respond.

"I might be able to get you out of the country," Combeferre continued. No one could hear them in his apartment, but he still caught himself speaking in a whisper. 

He knew people who had been sent to prison just for making the suggestion. 

"It's dangerous... but at least in Denmark, you could have your own life."

Silence. 

Combeferre took a deep breath as quietly as he could. He suspected there was something Significant in the physical ache he was feeling, but he forced himself to say "You know you can't stay here," anyway. 

Courfeyrac got up on his hands and knees under the blanket and shuffled away from him, into Combeferre's bedroom. He didn't hop up on the bed like Combeferre expected him to -- he went for the closet, violently throwing neatly-organised shoes out of his way so he could curl up in the newly-voided space on the floor. 

Combeferre pushed himself up reluctantly and followed. 

"Do you need anything?" Combeferre asked him gently. 

"You."

"Courfeyrac, I can't be the reason you stay."

Courfeyrac didn't reply. 

But Combeferre swore he could hear... chewing? 

He took a step nearer the closet.

Courfeyrac was gnawing on one of Combeferre's shoes.

Combeferre pushed his hand under his glasses and covered his eyes. 

He didn't care about the shoe. It was a nice shoe -- but he was more concerned with how painfully, perfectly cute the Hybrid curled up in his closet was. How much he absolutely didn't want Courfeyrac to go anywhere -- never mind Denmark. How he was more and more convinced with every passing moment that he could wake up next to those long, floppy ears every day and only ever be happy. 

How he could maybe make Courfeyrac happy too. 

He could easily 'keep' him in the same way that Musichetta kept Joly and Bossuet -- publicly, for his protection. And privately, like the equal partner that Combeferre wanted him to be.

If it weren't for his conscience, he'd have suggested that from the start. 

Twenty minutes went by with Combeferre just standing there, lost in his own thoughts while Courfeyrac tore his footwear apart. Combeferre might have stayed that way for an hour if Courfeyrac hadn't sat up. 

The boy kept the fleece over his head like a hood, but he faced Combeferre. 

He was pouting. 

Combeferre smiled softly. "Come here?"

Courfeyrac immediately leapt out of the closet, stopping obediently at Combeferre's feet to look up at him. 

"What do you want?" Combeferre asked again. 

Courfeyrac gently pressed his forehead against Combeferre's leg before looking up again. 

He wanted someone who loved him. He wanted someone who would play with him. He wanted someone that he could show affection to. 

What he wanted was standing in front of him. 

Combeferre reached out and brushed his fingers through Courfeyrac's hair gently. Courfeyrac immediately leaned into his touch, closing his eyes.

Neither of them said it, but they were both silently asking the same thing.

_“Do you even know that I’m in love with you?”_

***

The next day came and went without Combeferre bringing up the possibility of Courfeyrac leaving again. 

He knew he should have. He told himself to mention it half a dozen times -- but he didn't. 

And he didn't the next day. 

Or the day after that. 

Eventually he just stopped remembering. 

Courfeyrac started sleeping in his bed instead of on the couch. He tucked himself against Combeferre's chest at night, and Combeferre started waking up with one hand tangled in Courfeyrac's hair. They didn't talk about it. 

Eponine started making time in Combeferre's work schedule for him to run home for lunch. She was still worried -- but she was one of the few people who knew just how many meals Combeferre had skipped for the sake of his job. Not for the hours, or the money -- for the people who came in at the last minute, with no appointments, who needed help. If it meant getting Combeferre out of the office to eat -- even just for an hour -- she couldn't say no. 

Eager to please, Courfeyrac even tried his hand at cooking for the man that he was utterly, stupidly ears over tail in love with. He failed, of course. Miserably. But he did try, and that was -- according to popular theory -- what really mattered. 

(Although, after the fifth pan fire, Combeferre politely requested that Courfeyrac maybe never touch the stove ever again. Courfeyrac all too happily agreed that it was for the best -- while whimpering and nursing third degree burns on his chin.) 

It was just too easy for them to get caught up in each other and lose track of time. 

In reality, more than two weeks had passed since Combeferre had carried Courfeyrac out of the rain. The weather had gotten even colder -- one morning it had actually snowed, and even though Courfeyrac had seen snow a dozen times before, he did a thousand laps around the living room barking his excitement. Combeferre came very close to diagnosing himself with a broken rib -- he couldn't think of single time in his life when he'd ever laughed so hard.

It was completely obvious to them both by that point that their feelings were mutual -- and that they felt something more than shallow affection for each other. 

They'd actually talked about souls at one point -- Courfeyrac didn't know much about them, beyond that he knew that they were real, and that they had a habit of drawing people together like magnets. He did know an awful lot about what it felt like to be pulled -- almost like he was sleep-walking, he'd said -- towards someone, without realising, but that was it. The legacy and the myth -- the things that Hybrids built their religion around -- were as vague to him as they were to Combeferre, who'd made a point of subtly asking Hybrids about it all of his life, and still gotten nowhere. 

It wasn't surprising. Humans had done everything they could to declare their supremacy, short of making the very existence of Hybrids illegal. (Although, looking back through history, they'd done quite a lot of that, too.) A Hybrid's unwillingness to discuss any aspect of themselves with a strange human was just par for the course. 

And yet, despite everything -- including Courfeyrac's sad whining, Combeferre still kept his hands to himself as much as he could. He would let Courfeyrac crawl into his lap while he was reading. He let him snuggle. He couldn't stop himself from wanting Courfeyrac to be there, at his side, and Courfeyrac knew it. 

Apparently his Basset Hound bloodline made his nose very sensitive to pheromones. 

But at the end of the day (and the week, and the week that followed), Courfeyrac was still wearing a collar, and he didn't want to take it off. It made the things that they were unwilling to talk about awkward, at least for Combeferre. So things happened, and they got closer, and the world kept turning -- but they stayed in a hazy kind of limbo, punctuated only by the occasionally cooking accident and changes in the weather.

They could have carried on like that for quite a long time, if they'd had the chance. 

"You better not be in my closet again," Combeferre warned one day, shutting the front door. Courfeyrac was no where in sight, which was bizarre. Usually he had a sixth sense for when Combeferre would be back, and was always -- literally without fail -- waiting by the door for him. 

Courfeyrac didn't come leaping out of the bedroom. He didn't come slinking out of the kitchen with his tail between his legs because he'd made a mess (again). 

An uneasy feeling took root in Combeferre's stomach. 

"Courfeyrac?" He called out, walking into the living room without bothering to take his coat off. 

No answer. 

Combeferre turned around, scanning the couch -- the coffee table -- everything for a note, or an answer, or something. 

He wasn't really the type to panic. 

But he was pretty convinced he was panicking. 

He tripped over his own feet as he moved towards his bedroom. "Courfeyrac, are you here?" 

He had to be -- he couldn't just leave. It would have put them both at risk. Courfeyrac would never.

The softest, most ragged whine echoed in the bathroom. 

Combeferre lunged for the door. 

Courfeyrac was curled up on the floor, half on the bathmat and half on the tile. He opened his eyes when Combeferre dropped to his knees next to him, but he couldn't focus them. He couldn't speak. Combeferre didn't have to touch him to know he had a fever -- his freckled skin was red, and slick with sweat. 

Combeferre's stomach turned over, triggering memories of experiences he'd had in medical school. He'd never been squeamish when it came to blood or wounds or sickness -- it was the concern for another person's well-being that did him in. 

This was worse. This was a thousand times worse. This was an active pain he could feel, even though it made no sense. 

He actively forced himself to focus, to asses the situation -- Courfeyrac's fatigued, disoriented expression. His fever. His uneasy, rapid breathing. 

Combeferre knew what was wrong even before he'd reached over Courfeyrac and pulled the bandage away from his tail, but he had to be sure. Courfeyrac had been fine the night before. He'd been fine for two whole weeks. There was no reason for septicaemia to kick in then, but it clearly had. 

The end of Courfeyrac's tail was bent down sharply. 

Combeferre ripped his coat pocket open and immediately called Eponine. 

"Saint-Hilaire said they'll have the OR ready when we get there," she told him as he slid into the passenger seat. Her foot sank down on the gas pedal almost before he'd managed to close the door. She worked in a veterinary office for a reason. Whatever her misgivings about risk and self-sacrifice were, she did care. 

She just wouldn't hesitate if she had to throw them both under the bus to save herself. 

Courfeyrac was wrapped in a blanket and cradled against Combeferre's chest. Carrying him was easy -- in the last two weeks he had actually put on a little weight, but he'd been so thin before that it made almost no difference. Combeferre held him tight and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

Eponine sped towards the nearest veterinary hospital. They could do basic surgery at their clinic -- Combeferre had actually planned to deal with Courfeyrac's tail there, if it had come to that. But sepsis was fatal without proper care. 

He'd already risked Courfeyrac's life by not paying attention. He wasn't going to lose it by being even more stupid. 

Eponine glanced at him briefly. Combeferre wasn't looking at the road -- which was lucky. She'd run five stop lights already. His eyes were on Courfeyrac's face. 

She'd never met Courfeyrac before. She knew his name. She sort of knew what he looked like because Combeferre had described him a couple of times. (Described. Gushed. Same thing.) But she hadn't expected him to be quite so... young. 

If anyone had asked her, she'd have called him a puppy. A cute one -- but a puppy all the same.

It spoke volumes about her sense of humour that she was silently thinking of ways to slip 'cradle robber' into the non-existence conversation, even in that dire moment. 

Combeferre wasn't that old. He was in his late twenties, to Courfeyrac's she-was-really-hoping-it-was-the-sickness-that-made-him-look-so-prepubescent seventeen or eighteen. 

Still.

She'd have plenty of time to come up with the perfect one-liner, because--

"He'll be okay," she told him. 

Combeferre didn't reply. 

He didn't say anything at all until he'd carried Courfeyrac right into the operating room, and turned to his former professor, Saint-Hilaire, to insist that he do the surgery himself. 

In a hospital for humans, it would never have been allowed. Even though Combeferre had all the right degrees, and the licenses, and the insurance, there was protocol. Even though the procedure was fairly easy, there were safety regulations. There were rules, and those rules couldn't be broken. 

Those rules existed in veterinary hospitals, but it was a hell of a lot easier to ignore them when the majority of the ruling population just didn't care. 

Saint-Hilaire nodded, and backed out of the room, leaving Combeferre to scrub up. 

***

"You could put a bow on it," Combeferre suggested, smiling gently. 

Courfeyrac replied with a scandalised expression. "How would that help?" Combeferre ducked his head slightly as he laughed. 

"You're right," he conceded. He reached out and touched one of Courfeyrac's ears, brushing his fingers over the sleek fur. "There's no way anyone's going to be able to tell that you're a Hybrid now." 

"Told you," Courfeyrac said, pretending to sulk. "I'll have to wear a sign or something."

Combeferre leaned in and kissed his temple.

Despite nearly dying from a blood infection, Courfeyrac's primary concern for the last few days had been his newly amputated tail. And even with Combeferre's reassurances that part of it was still there -- he'd threatened to paralyse Courfeyrac from the neck down on more than one occasion if he didn't stop trying to wag it while it was healing -- Courfeyrac was convinced that it was completely gone, and that his Hybrid identity was at stake as a result. Obviously that meant finding an immediate, but plausible replacement so that there could be no doubt as to what he was.

"What about a feather boa?"

"A glittery one," Combeferre agreed. He hadn't left Courfeyrac's side at any point in the last few days. "To go with your sparkling personality."

Courfeyrac beamed. 

"You could--"

Eponine suddenly knocked on the glass divider between the room they were staying in and the hospital hallway. Her voice was muffled, but they both understood her, because she only said one word-- 

"Problem!"

A fat, swank-looking man in a smooth suit sauntered into view just behind her with two Hybrid control officers on his heels.

Combeferre stood up immediately. 

He didn’t see the colour suddenly, almost violently drain from Courfeyrac’s face.

The man and his entourage pushed right past Eponine and marched into Courfeyrac’s room. The two Hybrid control officers brushed Combeferre aside and stripped the blankets off Courfeyrac’s bed. One grabbed Courfeyrac’s ear, and then his collar, and all the poor boy could do was sit as still as possible while looking terrified. 

Without introducing himself, the man loudly, smugly announced: “Heard you found my dog!”

Combeferre was not a violent person generally. But a uniquely primal urge to kill and kill without regret was suddenly bubbling up in his chest. 

One of the officers turned to the man and nodded. 

“Now get your ass out of that bed, you little mongrel.”

Combeferre reassured himself later that his sudden, cold civility came out of his medical training -- but somehow he put all of the fury in humming in his body to the side and took a very authoritative step forward, grabbing the chart from the end of Courfeyrac’s bed as he moved. 

“Reclamation of any Hybrid from a state-owned hospital requires the signature of the attending veterinarian and the Hybrid’s human patron. Is that legally you?” Combeferre asked. The officers had a hand on Courfeyrac each, but they paused. 

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Damn fucking right it’s me. Stupid dog’s been missing almost three weeks.”

Combeferre looked down at the chart without so much as a sneer and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “What’s your name?”

“De Courfeyrac,” the man answered, folding his arms over his chest. In his bed, Courfeyrac looked down sharply. 

“What’s the Hybrid’s registered name?” 

“Dog.” 

Combeferre blinked, and looked up. “Dog?”

“Might as well fucking change it to piece of sh--”

“As charming as that will no doubt be for you,” Combeferre interrupted. In the control officers’ hands, Courfeyrac had started shaking. “This Hybrid is here for a reason. He’s recovering from a severe blood infection called septicaemia.”

“Shitting hell,” de Courfeyrac muttered. He glared at his pet, even though Courfeyrac wasn’t looking. 

Combeferre stoically didn’t move, or even acknowledge the man’s annoyance. 

“No, I don’t give a shit,” he said after a moment. “He’s a fucking runaway. He’s lucky I don’t drag his ass outside and have him put down. Grab him. We’re leaving.”

The officers lifted Courfeyrac out of the bed by his arms as he whimpered, but Combeferre turned the clipboard with Courfeyrac’s charts around and held it out to the man whose face he wanted to rip off with his bare hands. “Sign first. Then you can take him.”

The man grunted and took the clipboard, but before he could take the pen that Combeferre offered him, Combeferre added: “Unfortunately he was left out in the rain, so he’s racked up quite a hefty bill. Obviously you’ll be responsible for that, too.”

De Courfeyrac stopped. “What?”

Combeferre’s expression screamed innocence. “It’s the law. The Hybrid belongs to you. You’re responsible for his medical expenses.”

“That is true,” one of the officers commented. “But you don’t have to pay it now.”

“You do have to pay a percentage of it upfront,” Combeferre replied dismissively. 

De Courfeyrac made a disgusted noise and reached for his wallet. Under his breath, he muttered, “Gonna take this out of your fucking skin, dog,” as he opened his chequebook. “How much?”

“Twenty-five percent of the total bill,” Combeferre answered.

“Which is?”

Combeferre was nonchalant. “Three hundred thousand euro.”

De Courfeyrac stared at him. Outside the room, Eponine was fighting a smile. 

“So that’s seventy-five thousand upfront. None of which is reclaimable, because you’re taking him without the consent of his attending physician. Any resulting damages are your liability. Not ours.”

De Courfeyrac practically exploded. He shoved the charts back at Combeferre with a soulless glare. “He’s a fucking Basset Hound! He’s not even worth a tenth of that. And he, specifically--” He pointed a fat, accusatory finger at the shaking Hybrid. “Is worth even fucking less he’s so useless. No one’s going to pay that.”

“Be that as it may, it’s hospital policy--”

“I don’t give a shit! I’m taking my fucking dog!”

“Unfortunately, I can’t let you do that. The state is not paying your pet’s medical bills--”

“And neither am I!”

“Well, you have to,” Combeferre replied sharply. De Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed at the suddenly commanding tone. “Unless you plan on signing him over--”

“What?”

Combeferre flipped to the last page on the chart. “You can sign him over to the state with the admission that you weren’t in possession of the Hybrid when he was admitted, and defer financial responsibility to them. Of course, that means--”

De Courfeyrac was already signing. 

“--that you’ll lose your pet...”

The man muttered about god damn dogs -- but he clearly didn’t care. He’d made it very plain that Courfeyrac meant less to him than money. Not that it stopped him from sullenly pushing the papers into Combeferre’s hands. The officers let Courfeyrac go and moved back to the door. Courfeyrac immediately curled into a ball, pressing his face into the mattress. He was still shaking. 

De Courfeyrac turned to go, still swearing as he trailed behind the men he’d come in with -- but Combeferre followed on his heels and caught him at the door.

“Give me the key.”

De Courfeyrac sneered at him. “What key?” But Combeferre’s iciness made him shift uncomfortably.

“The key to his collar,” Combeferre answered quietly.

“Pft.” De Courfeyrac turned to walk away again.

Combeferre stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

It wasn’t much, but the unyielding grip of Combeferre’s fingers into De Courfeyrac’s skin implied that -- while he might not look it -- in that moment, he was more than capable of extreme, debilitating violence. 

“There is no key,” De Courfeyrac hissed sourly. “He’s a fucking Hybrid. The collar’s not supposed to come off.” He wrenched away from Combeferre and left -- and said nothing as he marched off a little quicker than he might’ve meant to.

Combeferre stifled a disappointed growl. In a low voice he said to Eponine (who couldn’t stop grinning), “Get me a pair of wire cutters. Now.”

He stayed by the door as Eponine ran off to get what he asked for. He was frustrated -- furious that people like that existed at all, and even more disappointed that they were the norm. It was absolutely disgusting. 

It didn’t take long for Eponine to find the heavy duty, surgical tool he needed. 

Combeferre took them and turned towards the bed.

Courfeyrac -- whose name, Combeferre miserably realised, was not Courfeyrac at all -- had buried his head under the pillow, but that was for the best. Combeferre suspected that despite everything that had just happened -- despite everything that asshole had probably done to him -- that sweet, beautiful boy still wouldn’t want to let his collar go. 

It was self-defence, in a way. At least with it he could go out in public unquestioned. 

Combeferre quickly but gently pulled it away from the boy’s skin, and cut it off. 

As he predicted, the boy panicked. He yelped loudly -- a sound closer to a howl than anything a human could make -- and jerked upright, lunging for the collar as Combeferre tossed it and the wire cutters away. He grabbed the boy’s face with both hands, holding him tightly and whispered as reassuringly as he could to soothe him.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Combeferre told him. He kissed the boy on the forehead. “I will get you a new one. I promise.”

The boy buried his face and his hands and as much of himself as he could in Combeferre’s shirt, clinging tightly to him -- almost as if he was trying to hide inside him.

Combeferre wrapped his arms around the boy, and practically let him. He kissed his temple and the top of his head again and again as he held the boy tight, and reassured him that he’d get a replacement as soon as he could. 

And he would. For that warm, perfect, loving boy, he absolutely would. 

Combeferre closed his eyes and rested his head against Courfeyrac’s. “I’ll do anything for you,” he murmured softly. “You’re worth the world to me.”


End file.
